The Games Began
by wittyblather
Summary: The Rebellion failed. Katniss and Peeta are dead. There is only one way for the Capitol to prove its superiority once and for all. Welcome to the most massive Hunger Games in Panem History: the true 75th Quarter Quell.


My name is Flynn Breckenridge. I live in District Nine, and I dream in amber.

I guess that's not too surprising, though. We're the district of grain and wheat, after all, so we're surrounded by an ocean of beige for most of the year. It gets into your head. I'm more used to seeing the neutral colors of our crops than anything vibrant, so when I dream, everything is a hue of sepia. There's something remarkably calming about it, even if I can't quite explain why.

Sometimes, though, there's no being calmed, and for some reason, my dream tonight has set me on edge.

I'm standing in a field of wheat, alone, able to see for miles around me as the grain waves violently in the harsh wind. In the distance, I can make out the silhouettes of the other districts: the urban skylines of One and Three, the forests of Seven, the coasts of Four. Two mountain ranges stand at opposite sides of my vision, one glowing brightly and dotted with metal buildings, the other stark and barren. Though I do not understand why, I know that I look upon the whole of Panem from where I stand, and for a second, I'm overcome by a great sense of peace. Everything I see is my home, and in it, I know I'm safe.

But the already racing wind picks up into a gale, and I can feel the skirt around me start to billow as a menacing storm cloud blossoms overhead. It is an ugly color of yellow-brown against the earthy shades of the wheat and the rest of the sky, and it seems to writhe for a few seconds before a shock of bright, white lightning erupts from it, striking the dull mountain range and suddenly setting the enormous place ablaze. Light radiates from the flames of this district, the district of coal, and it hurts my eyes to look at it too long. Even the artificial light of the Capitol cannot compare to this, and it seems to shrink as the flames begin to leap to other districts and set them alight. It is then that from the flames of Twelve arises a bird, the mockingjay, standing out red and orange among the rest of the amber in my dream. It is magnificent to see, but as everything around me catches fire, I begin to feel uneasy again. Somehow, something was not right about what is going on.

A second later, there is a violent shockwave from the Capitol, a quake that knocks me off my feet. On my hands and knees in the field, I can see the soaring mockingjay's flames turn from crimson to black, and the bird cries out in agony as its body begins to burn alive. One by one, all the fires of Panem follow suit, and their previous beauty dies as the districts begin to crumble in their heat. The mockingjay gives up its struggle to stay in the sky, and the lifeless corpse plummets to the ground. To my feet.

I try to go towards it. I scramble to try and regain my balance, but a second shockwave knocks me backwards, and suddenly I can't breathe as the wheat around me has been set aflame. There is no more amber in my vision now. There is only black and grey as the tongues of flame consume our crops and choke me with smoke. I try to breathe in desperately, lying low to the ground to avoid fumes, but it is useless. The smell of burning grain fills my nostrils and makes my eyes water. I'm suffocating.

_In order to put down the rebellion in the districts, all crops from District Nine are henceforth destroyed._

The words of President Snow ring in my head, and I can now remember why we're being attacked. This is all because of the rebellion. They want to make us starve so we'll give in to them again. It is a good tactic; the citizens of the districts are hungry enough as it is. No one district can provide for itself, and without unity, there is no rebellion.

But if the mockingjay is dead, why is Panem still burning? Are there still rebels to smoke out? I want to scream that I'm not one of them, that they can stop burning my home, but I cannot speak and my lungs are filled with ash. This fire will kill me, and then it will burn until there's nothing left of the land or the people. I cough, then let out a single sob of terror at my death.

Or perhaps terror at being suddenly shaken awake, as the world of destruction around me fades in a second and I'm in my bed again with my mother towering over me.

I blink several times to clear my vision, realizing that I had actually begun to cry during my hazy nightmare. I can see that the sky is still dark outside, but for some reason, all the streetlights are turned on and blazing into the windows of every home like a kind of artificial moon. Outside every house in our neighborhood is a pack of intimidating, burly men in black overcoats: Peacekeepers. My heart quickens again at the sight of them. Security had been upped during the rebellion, but there was nothing like this before. People are coming out of their homes still in their pajamas, despite the bitter cold that our walls cannot keep out during the winter. Something isn't right about all this. I turn back to face my mother, who had turned to wake up my three brothers while I gathered my bearings.

"What's going on, mother?" I ask softly, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible. The boys, all younger than me, are sleepy and confused as they're pulled out of bed and ushered towards the door.

"Go on, boys. I will explain all of this later, I promise." She assures them sweetly, though I can hear the terror in her words. She is just as frightened as I am. "You too, Flynn. We have to be quick, or the Peacekeepers will get irritated."

I obediently climb out of my bed and shuffle towards the door of our home, but I keep my gaze on her. "Tell me, please. I can't just not know why we're being forced out of our house in the middle of the night."

"It's best not to ask questions, dear. They banged on everyone's doors just a few minutes ago and told us to head over to the square immediately. Please, Flynn, be cooperative. We can't afford to look like we're resisting, not after all that's been going on." She says all this as she rummages through our trunk of clothes, pulling out four woolen jackets, all very worn, but warm nonetheless. "I'm _not_ going to have my children freezing to death out there, though. Bring these to your brothers, please. You know how sensitive Wick is to cold."

When my mother gets like this, there is no getting anything from her, so I sigh and take the coats, using one hand to clumsily put mine on me as I rush out the door to meet my father and siblings, all of whom are being shoved quickly down the street by Peacekeepers. In my bare feet, I dash down our pathway and catch up with them, wincing as cold gravel bits into me. The rest of my family is barefoot as well, and my eight-year-old brother Wick is sniffling in discomfort and fright as he holds my father's hand. I place the tiny jacket on his shoulders, and while he briefly looks up at me and smiles, I know that there's no real comforting him. He's always been the baby of the family, and when he's sad, he stays that way until he doesn't want to be anymore. Not that I can really blame him in this situation. My eight-year-old self would have been inconsolable.

I toss both jackets to my twin brothers Sol and Pol, who are walking in perfect synch, though they are not saying a word. It's almost eerie, seeing the ten-year-olds be quiet, for once. The two are nearly famous among the district for their rowdiness, and like all twins, one is never without the other. In fact, when I think about it, I can't decide if they're silent because they are scared, or because they simply know what the other is thinking. Probably a bit of both. Of course, no one else in the shivering caravan is doing much talking either, but few of them are as haunting as my hyperactive brothers who are now silent as the grave. A cold wind passes, and I bundle the thinning fabric of my jacket around me, ignoring the glares of the Peacekeepers who clearly hadn't planned on any of us bringing any kind of comfort. My father puts an arm around Wick and pulls him in tightly. I suddenly feel my mother do the same to me, but I jerk away. I'm sixteen, and perfectly capable of handling myself. The twins are the ones who could really use the warmth of a parent. I catch my mother's slightly hurt gaze for a second and tip my head towards the shivering duo, and with a flash of her eyes, I know that she understands my message. She goes over to them, and I shove my fists into the pockets of my jacket. It isn't close to fitting me anymore. After the starvation of the rebellion, I had lost most of the meat on my body, and was now little more than a gangly skeleton. This would have been embarrassing, if all my peers hadn't looked the exact same way. At least we found unity in our humiliation.

Soon enough, our neighborhood, shepherded by the Peacekeepers, arrives at the district square, which is steadily filling up with the other residents. This actually comforts me a little; after all, it means that we aren't being singled out for some kind of punishment. The gigantic television screen that's used only for Hunger Games viewing and Capitol announcements is glowing brightly, but not showing any image yet. It just bathes everything in its sickly, blueish light, a light in the dark that somehow manages to be more terrifying than the dark or the cold itself.

"Into your age groups. Now." A deep voice behind me commands, and I feel the butt of a shotgun shoved into the small of my back. I stumble forward to the snickers behind me, fighting a raging blush on my cheeks as I regain my footing. They must have meant our Games age groups, the rows we stood in every year to await the Reaping. I turn hesitantly back towards my family and catch the glances of everyone. Wick is still crying, of course, and the twins stare at me with concern in their eyes, but they are not truly worried. The one who is is my mother, who's looking at me with a kind of quiet panic that I'm used to seeing every year when we're called to the square like this. It's her fear that I'll be the one to be Reaped this year. I don't know why she's afraid of that now, of all times. The Games had just happened several months ago, after all. The Reaping wouldn't be for quite some time. Whatever this was, it was probably just some kind of new regulation or Capitol reprimand. I do my best to shoot her a smile, but I can plainly see that I'm not doing a good job of reassuring her. I look quickly at my father, as stoic as ever, before I nod once and turn my back on them completely. I have to find my fellow sixteen-year-olds.

As usual, it's not terribly hard to find where I'm supposed to stand. The older teenagers like me are always placed near the back, probably so whatever cameras are aimed on us at the moment can get a clear look at the face of every potential tribute. Amongst the bustling group of people, I can see a few faces that I recognize from school. I'm not exactly popular there, of course. My tendency towards shyness and my gaunt appearance make that sort of thing difficult to achieve. In a group of around three hundred, however, I can see a few that I can stand to be near, and I edge my way towards them, stepping on a few bare toes as I do so.

"Flynn." The girl I end up next to, Gayla, greets me coolly, eying my jacket with jealousy as she rubs the shoulders of her pajamas. I nod in reply. "You think they could pick a warmer night to drag us out here without warning." A few people surrounding us murmur in agreement as many press together to keep warm. I just tug my coat closer to myself, trying to release the nervous energy that's threatening to explode inside of me.

"They probably aren't too concerned with our comfort right now." I sigh, looking at the humongous screen in front of us for any signs of life. "What do you think this is all about, anyway? I really, really hope it's not another rebellion." I shudder as an image of black flames flashes quickly into my mind, as well as the sensation of suffocating. I think that was probably a part of the nightmare I had been having before all this had started.

Gayla bit the inside of her cheek, a habit that she always had when she was thinking. School had made that much about her fairly obvious to me. "Well, I don't know about you, but it looks an awful lot like a Reaping to me." My eyes widen and I open my mouth to reply, but she doesn't give me the chance. "I mean, look around you. We're lined up like we are every year. The screen's lit. And look, on the top of the buildings. There are the cameras." She points a shaky, bony finger at the roof of one brick-building, and sure enough, I can see a small lens staring back at us, all but invisible except for the bright light that catches in the glass. I immediately turn away, not wanting my face to be a close-up for whatever event was being filmed right now.

"If it's a Reaping, though, where are the bowls?" I counter her, though it's as much of a reassurance of myself as it is of her. She just shrugs.

"Dunno. Those things always seem to come out of nowhere, though, so I wouldn't be surprised if they're just stowed somewhere. It would be a surprise and all." Gayla sounds surprisingly nonchalant about all this. Somehow, I'm hardly surprised. Her family owned several grain silos and mills, and they hadn't had any trouble with food until this year, when all the crops were destroyed because of the rebellion. I remember how she cried when she had to take out one tessara for herself a few weeks ago. A part of me wanted to tell her about the numerous ones I had accumulated over the years in helping to feed a six person family, but I mostly kept silent. Gayla was a nice enough person. She didn't deserve my anger. Besides, there were plenty of kids worse off than me, those who had to apply for tessarae every single year they could. Twelve or so extra names was nothing compared to the ten thousand or so slips of paper that sat in the bowl every year.

Thankfully, I don't have much more time to contemplate because in a second, the screen buzzes and a crystal-clear shot of the Capitol podium comes on.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" A voice booms over the speakers, making several people in the crowd start violently. A baby starts to cry somewhere in the crowd. "I give you your leader, President Snow!" The crowd on screen erupts into raucous applause as we in district nine clap a few times in respect. We're still wary of the man who destroyed our main source of food. The haunting man takes his place at the bronze stand, fitting perfectly into the emblem of Panem emblazoned into the wall behind me.

"Thank you very much." He shoots the camera a sickly smile, and I don't know if it's the way the picture is shot, but it feels like he's looking directly at me. I shiver, and hug myself tighter to act like it was just a chilly breeze that shook me. "Citizens of Panem, I regret to disturb your sleep tonight, but I bear exciting news to you. News of a…celebration. An event, in honor of Panem's recent unification against the so-called Mockingjay rebellion." He pauses, and the Capitol viewers eventually start to applaud again happily. Few here actually clap, but considering the number of Peacekeepers around, it's certainly not a bad idea. "I am here to announce, of course, the Seventy-Fifth Annual Hunger Games." Again, the smile.

My stomach drops, and I look to those around me in confusion. Weren't the Games supposed to be a few months away? Why would President Snow be announcing this to us right now, instead of just waiting for the actual Reaping day to make a big speech? And didn't the Seventy-Fifth games pass already? I guess they would want to act like the embarrassment of that had never happened, but it meant that this year would be a Quarter Quell - again. And that is dangerous.

"This year, however, we're expanding upon the Quarter Quell to make the most massive Games in Panem history." The Capitol crowd murmurs in excitement, no doubt awaiting the twist that the Gamemakers have in store for them. "For this year only, we are quadrupling the number of tributes each district has the honor of sending to compete."

I would vomit if there was anything at all in my stomach.

"That's right, each district will send four girls and four boys to the Capitol this year, instead of the usual two. Except for the lovely district twelve, of course." The man's gaze turns deadly cold as he looks into the camera and across the nation. "District twelve will send one tribute for each district of Panem they betrayed when they instigated a rebellion." Snow pauses for what seems like forever, no doubt letting the horror of his message sink in with the coal district. I feel bad for them, of course, but at the same time, I'm very, very glad that we're not being punished in this way. Four girls may make my chances skyrocket, but six would have been unthinkable.

"This gives us a total of one hundred tributes participating in this year's Games!" The President resumes his sickly sweet demeanor, and the Capitol woops and cheers in excitement while not a single person in the districts dares to blink.

His bony hands stretch out in front of him, urging the unruly audience to calm down. "Of course, not every one of these tributes will be going into the arena. As much as we all enjoyed the Fiftieth Quarter Quell, I think we can all agree that it was a bit chaotic, and that one only had forty-eight!" The Capitolites who are old enough to remember that year chuckle in agreement, and President Snow smirks. "To pare down the tributes to only the best of the best, there will be two rounds of elimination lasting for two weeks leading up to the start of the Games themselves. Now, I'm not going to ruin the surprise of what these rounds will entail," the crowd sounds very disappointed about this "but I will tell you that all of them will be televised, and that the runner-up tributes will get special consolation prizes for not getting to go into the arena itself." He takes another dramatic pause, something I'm noticing that he's quite good at.

"The tributes eliminated in the first round will be allowed to return to their home districts." This finally elicits something like excitement from the crowd in district nine as hope sparks in everyone's hearts once again. "However, to discourage tributes from slacking just to get to go back home, there is an additional clause: each member of the eliminated tribute's family will have their name entered into the Reaping an additional fifty times. Regardless of their age."

My mouth drops completely open as the meaning of his words sink in, and I'm suddenly besieged with images of Wick, eight years old and completely helpless, or my mother, with her bad back and slow walk, forced into the Games. These tributes were almost certainly condemning the members of their own families to death. After all, the Capitol says fifty more slips, but who knows how much that actually meant? A hundred? A thousand? An entire Reaping bowl filled with one family's slips? My outrage is only beaten out by my fear about this whole thing.

_It can't be me. It just can't be me. God, don't let them pick me._

"The tributes who make it to the second round, but are eliminated then, have the privilege of remaining with us here in the Capitol, as one of our faithful Avox servants." The audience oohs and aahs in amazement, certainly viewing this as a great act of charity on their part. I had never met an Avox before - obviously, they only resided in the Capitol - but I'd heard the gruesome stories of tongues cut out and horrible duties to abusive masters. The idea makes me sick to my stomach. So far, the tributes of this Games have the options of death, slavery, or watching their family die because of them. And eight of us will have to endure one of the three.

"Of course, all of you are familiar with how the Games work once the tributes are actually in the arena." Snow skirts over the subject of brutal slaughter like the brilliant manipulator he is. "In addition to the usual prize of additional food to the winner's district this year, though, we are upping the ante a bit, to give this year's batch of tributes a little extra motivation." His smile spreads slowly across his face, and I can only imagine what horrific bombshell he's about to drop on us. "To show the Capitol's generosity and good will towards its faithful districts, the Victor's home district will be exempt from all future Hunger Games."

I can hear all of Panem gasping. The electric buzz among the crowd is immediate, and I see many children looking around to catch the happy glances of their parents, who have hope again for once in their life that their child will not be victim to the vicious Games. I gape, almost unwilling to believe this incredible act of generosity from a man who so ruthlessly slaughtered hundreds just a few months ago. All of this is so absolutely surreal, I'm sure I'm in a dream.

"Now that we know our prizes for this year, let the Reapings begin." Snow raises his hand in what is probably intended to be a gesture of farewell, but I can't help but read something incredibly sinister into it. Once again, I shudder. "May the odds be ever in your favor, tributes."

The screen switches off, but I can hear the mechanical whir as the cameras on the tops of the buildings switch on, ready to film this impromptu Reaping. I'm sure that people are trying to talk to me right now - Gayla especially seems to be chattering in my ear about one thing or another - but there is too much going on in my head right now to focus on anything but my own thoughts. I train my eyes to the stage, where two glass bowls rise out of some trap door that had perhaps always been there. Our district escort and mayor both make their way to the stage, the former looking as pressed and proper as ever, and the latter looking just as bedraggled as the rest of us.

Our escort is a lady known as Willow Peak, and for what she's done to herself, she could very well pass for her namesake. Her tightly braided hair is bright green in color, hanging down to her waist in ropy strands. She stands very tall at all times, is thin without looking starved like the rest of us, and somehow has changed her skin color to be the pale beige that is characteristic of the tree's wood. It would make her look sickly, if she didn't look incredibly dignified at all times. In her defense, she's one of the more bearable escorts out of the bunch, with only minimal Capitol frivolity as she performs her job as pseudo-executioner. Tonight, she examines the crowd with a somber eye, taking her usual place behind the two large, glass bowls.

"Well, I think President Snow has provided quite the introduction." She says, her voice somehow magnified so the entire square can hear it. "Let's waste no time in this cold, shall we?" She strides over to the bowl on the left, high heels clacking against the wood of the stage. "As usual, it's ladies first." I could have imagined it, but I think I hear a small sigh escape her lips. "And don't we have a long list this year…" She trails off as she plunges her hand into the slips of paper. My heart races.

_Not me not me not me please_

"Xenia Larsen!"

There's a loud commotion behind me, and who I can only assume is an eighteen-year-old begins to step forward, looking like she's holding her breath to keep from crying, if the tears running down her dark cheeks are any indication. I feel a pang of intense pity for her. These eighteen-year-olds had probably thought they'd escaped the Games for good, after the last one was announced to be a Victor's game. Now the poor girl had that freedom taken away once again, and this time, there were punishments much worse than death on the line. I try to shoot her a sympathetic smile, but she's too focused on the stage in front of her to look my way. I can't say I blame her.

Willow offers the first female tribute a handshake when she finally reaches the podium, and she takes it listlessly, dropping the hand as soon as possible and all but dropping like a stone into her chair. Our escort clears her throat, then reaches back down into the bowl. I cross my fingers behind my back. One girl tribute down, three to go.

"Vella Lobald!"

I hear two shrieks simultaneously: one from a very small girl at the front of the assembly, and one from her mother somewhere off to the side of the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a team of Peacekeepers move to keep the older woman in place as Willow offers a wave of encouragement to the now hysterical Vella, who seems barely able to move. The other twelve-year-olds surrounding her try to nudge her gently forward until the mayor himself climbs down the small set of stairs to give her his hand. She takes it, though she still is bawling and seems on the verge of being sick. If she does, I hope it's in the tribute bowl. Maybe then district nine females would have to be disqualified so that vomit doesn't touch those perfect, Capitol hands. I'm so amused by my morbid fantasy that I barely have time to register the next name that's called.

"Gayla Forsythe!"

No. There was no way.

I pivot to my left to see my companion completely white, her mouth hanging wide open. How could she, a moderately well-off girl with need of only _one_ tessera in her life, possibly have been Reaped? She's probably thinking the exact same thing right now too, if she's thinking at all. A few seconds go by, and she's still standing as still as ever, seeming to be almost unconscious in her shock. The people around her, including me, begin to murmur a bit, offering a pat on the bat or a gentle push towards the stage. I place my hand on her shoulder, and without thinking, I pull her in for a hug. It's an uncommon thing for me to actually hug someone not in my family, but I just can't leave her alone, especially with how devastated she seems. Someone needs to assure her that she is cared about before she goes up there, and if I'm the one who needs to give her that courage, I'll do it, regardless of how little I actually know her.

She seems to appreciate it well enough, because even though she doesn't hug me back or even register that I'm holding her, Gayla finally begins to make her way up to the stage to join with the Xenia and Vella, who had indeed began to retch and had been taken away briefly to be stabilized.

I take a long, deep breath of cold air and watch it disappear in front of me as I exhale. Three girls have been picked so far. There are at least a thousand other girls still eligible to be picked, many with twice as much tesserae as I have. The odds have already chosen their person to ignore; three times over in fact, with the eighteen-year-old who thought she was free, the twelve-year-old with at most five slips, and the rich girl who has only just begun to know hunger. It's going to be someone else. Of course it's going to be someone else.

My dark eyes are glued to Willow's meticulously manicured hands as she reaches into the female bowl one last time. She swirls it around a few times, touches one slip, then another, then another. I would say that she was playing with us, except for the look on her face that is the closest thing to pity I have ever seen from a Capitolite. Perhaps she just senses that this last person that she picks will more than likely have their life ruined or completely taken away in more ways than one.

Finally, her fingers grasp a pristine, white slip and lift it out of the bowl. My heart is beating so fast that I'm getting dizzy, and I can feel the sweat forming on my shaking palms. It can't be me. Not this one. This slip of paper has to belong to some other unlucky name. It just can't be one marked with -

"Flynn Breckenridge!"

And with those two words, I know my life is over.


End file.
